We Used to Wait
by Petroica traversi
Summary: Will a separation be the beginning or end of Gregory and Christophe's relationship? Written for the SP Yule thingie on Tumblr.


I wrote this for the SP Yule Secret Santa thinger on Tumblr. The prompt was something along the line of, "Long distance communication, letter writing," orrrr something like that. Yeah.

XXX

I never would have expected Christophe to be an eloquent writer, and yet his correspondence was exactly that. When he'd moved back to France in the 11th grade, he'd promised to keep in touch, and I simply shrugged, thinking I might get an email on occasion, if I was lucky. So I was surprised one day, only a few weeks later, when a hand-written letter appeared in my mailbox, with Christophe's appalling handwriting on the front.

It was a confession, and though Christophe's handwriting was little more than angry slashes, I'm rather embarrassed to admit that the words he had written nearly made me swoon as I read them in my sunlit bedroom.

"I miss you, my friend, more than I would ever admit to anyone else. I know you think I am brave, but I was always too much of a coward to tell you how I really felt about you. I think I am only telling you now because I don't think I'll ever see you again, and I'm sure you would laugh in my face if I said any of this in person."

But I wouldn't have laughed. The letter was a revelation, and I wrote back in kind, finding wry humor in the fact that neither of us had had the courage to say anything until it was too late.

But then, it wasn't _exactly_ too late. My parents have money. Lots of money. And so the summer after Christophe left, before my senior year of high school, I absolutely insisted they allow me to spend the summer in France. Being the type of people who didn't really care what I got up to, so long as I excelled at school (which I assure you I do), they relented.

The result was the most amazing two months of my life. We spent the days sightseeing around Paris, though Christophe was reluctant to play tour guide, and the nights had been filled with sex so intense that I thought I would lose my mind at times. Not to sound cliché, but it all so terribly romantic, and I'd fallen more in love with him than ever.

But then I went back home, and things got... weird. Before the trip, Christophe and I had been sending letters to each other at least once a week. But after my return home, the letters became more and more sporadic, until Christophe stopped responding completely. By January I had come to accept that Christophe was through with me. I didn't know the cause, of course. Maybe Christophe had gotten all he'd wanted from our relationship during the summer. Maybe once things changed between us he'd realized it wasn't what he wanted at all. I supposed it didn't matter either way; I'd lost my friend and my lover in one fell swoop, and I was left heartbroken.

X

One cold, snowy day in February I was in my bedroom, studying. My concentration was rather rudely broken by a thunderous knock at the front door. My parents were at some event in Denver, so I reluctantly pulled myself away from my book with a curse. Whoever was outside began pounding even harder at the door, the knocks sounding progressively angrier.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," I muttered under my breath, irritated at having been torn away from my studies. My irritation was replaced with shock as I opened the door.

Christophe had an impatient look upon his face as the door swung open, his fist raised, ready to pound upon it again. He looked dumbfounded as he caught sight of me, and we stared at each other for a few silent moments before Christophe pounced. I jumped back, ever so slightly, but he caught my shoulders in his hands and pressed his lips upon mine without comment.

I had tried so hard over the months to forget the feeling of kissing Christophe: the way his chapped lips caught at my skin, and the taste of his mouth, permanently flavored with tobacco. And perhaps I had succeeded in some way, because this was so much more amazing than what I had remembered.

I moaned as his tongue swept into my mouth, and his hands traveled up from my shoulders, one cupping my face, and the other threading through my hair. I gasped as he pulled my hair ever so slightly, and moved his mouth to my neck, licking and biting at the sensitive skin.

It was only when I heard a car drive by that I realized we were still standing at my front door, where any passersby could see us. I broke away from him, pulling him inside by the arm and shutting the door behind us.

He moved as if to pounce upon me again, but I held a hand up to stop him.

"No, Christophe," I said, "We need to talk."

"About what?" he asked, moving toward me and planting a kiss on my neck again. I stepped back and gave him a stern look, which was enough to make him back off.

"Maybe about the fact that I haven't heard from you in four months? Why have you come here? Looking for another cheap fuck?"

He didn't respond for a minute, just stared back at me with anger written all over his face.

"Let's go to your room," he said, finally.

"Why? So you can have your way with me again?"

He ran a hand over his face, quickly becoming frustrated with me. I couldn't really blame him, though. I rarely got emotional over anything, but when I did it was never a pretty sight. But this was the man who broke my heart. Despite everything, I still loved him, but I wasn't about to let him waltz back into my life and do as he pleased with me, no matter how much I might have wanted it.

"So we can talk, stupide. I'd rather do it somewhere... more private."

Though my parents were out, I wasn't sure when they'd be returning, so I relented, leading him up to my room without a word. I shut the door behind me and turned to watch him sit on my bed, looking rather uncomfortable.

"Come, sit with me," he said.

"I'd rather not, actually."

He rolled his eyes at me and then proceeded to flop back on the bed, and, addressing the ceiling, said, "The letters were not enough."  
>"Pardon me?"<p>

"Writing letters. Eet was not enough for me," he continued, still speaking to my bedroom ceiling, "After actually being with you... I couldn't fucking stand them. They were like... a mockery, of what we 'ad. I couldn't write back because eet was too painful."

"You expect me to believe that?" I asked. I wanted to believe him so badly, but I was terrified he'd just hurt me again.

"I flew 'ere just for you!" he shouted, sitting up, "I didn't 'ave a job 'ere or anything, I flew five thousand fucking miles, across the God damn ocean because I wanted to see you again! You don't think I could 'ave gotten a quick lay een Paris, eef that was what I wanted? I just wanted to be with you."

He looked furious, but at least he was actually looking at me again. For once, I looked away first. I stood there silently for a moment, just listening to his heavy breathing, trying to process what he'd just told me.  
>"Say something," he said.<p>

I locked eyes with him once more.

"You hurt me," I admitted, quietly, looking away again. I hated feeling this vulnerable; admitting to someone else that I was at their mercy.

"I did not mean to," he responded, climbing off my bed and slowly moving toward me.

I bit my lip, still not having the courage to look at him, and not even sure I should be telling him these things. But the words seemed to tumble out of me without my permission.

"I thought you were through with me," I said, "That you didn't want me anymore."

"Nothing could be further from ze truth," he said, his face inches from mine. I could feel his breath on my cheek.

The moment I looked up he closed the gap between our lips once more. This time I didn't push him away. This time I wrapped my arms around him, and let him drag me over to my bed. Maybe it was stupid of me to believe him so quickly, but I'd always trusted Christophe, and knew he would never put himself in such a vulnerable position unless he really meant it.

He laid me against the pillows, pulling my shirt up and planting kisses on my chest. His mouth found a nipple, and I gasped and arched against him, running my hands through his hair as he bit down on it. He obliged me as I tore at his shirt, needing to feel his skin against mine. He sat back and frantically pulled his clothes off, eying me the whole time. I had fully intended to take mine off as well, but watching him proved to be too much of a distraction, and I simply laid there with my hands frozen on the button of my trousers. As soon as he had divested himself of his clothing he leaned over me again, kissing me and pulling at my shirt once more.

"I missed this," I mumbled as he removed the rest of my clothing, running his hands along my exposed skin, "I missed you so much."

"Me too, mon cher," he replied, as he planted kisses along my thigh.

Sex was rarely gentle between us, but this time we went slowly, exploring every part of each others' bodies, each of us pushing the other to the brink of ecstasy, before pulling away, which made it that much more satisfying when, some time later, we both finally reached our climaxes. He'd been holding back for my sake, moving slowly within me to draw it out as long as possible, but as soon as I found my release he began to thrust into me so passionately that I was afraid the bed would break. He came quickly after that, panting hard into my mouth.

We laid there quietly after that, trying to regain our breath. He hadn't moved off me yet, and I ran my hands across his sweaty back. I could feel his racing pulse under my fingertips, as I brought my hands up to his neck. I sighed happily against him, bringing my lips to his cheek.

He pulled away, finally, and flopped against my side, with one of his arms still draped across my chest. He smiled drowsily at me, looking more relaxed than I had ever seen him. But I couldn't quite let go of my anxiety.

"I hate to break the mood," I started, "but um, what are your plans?"

He stared back at me, confused, and then rolled over reaching for his trousers. My heart leapt into my throat for a second, as I thought he was getting up to leave, but he only grabbed a cigarette and his lighter, leaning back against my pillows to light it.

"Please don't smoke that in here," I said.

I didn't want my room to smell like smoke, and moreover, I didn't want my parents to accuse me of picking up the habit myself. He sighed and set the cigarette on my nightstand, but kept the lighter in his hand, fiddling with it until I grabbed it away from him.

"I asked a question, Christophe."

"I don't know what you mean," he said, "I was going to 'ave a cigarette, and then maybe take you out to dinner, hm? I 'ave not eaten since before I boarded ze plane."

"I meant long-term," I said, annoyed, "Are you going back to France?"

He looked at me, and seemed amused as he'd finally caught on to my anxieties.

"I am staying 'ere," he said, pulling me against him once more, "Or, well I might get an apartment or something, I don't know. I 'ave not thought that far ahead yet. But, ah, I did not come 'ere just for a visit, stupide. I came because I could not stand to be away from you."

"But what will you do?" I asked, pressing my face against his chest.

"I don't know," he shrugged, "I 'ave money saved up that will last me a little while. That is why I did not come earlier... because I wanted to make sure I could support myself until we figured things out. That is, of course, if you still want me."

It wasn't until he said that that I realized he had some anxieties of his own. But as I pulled back to admonish him I realized he was only teasing me.

"You're an arsehole," I said, slapping him lightly on the chest before laying back down against him.

"Ah, oui, tell me something I don't know," he said, wrapping his arms around me, "But ah, I will do whatever you want. You can finish up 'igh school, and go to college, or move to France with me, or back to Britain, or whatever. I don't care. I just want to be with you."

I sighed against him, finally able to relax, glad we were finally on the same page. As I drifted off to sleep, my only regret was that I would miss our written correspondence. But in the coming years I would be surprised every now and then, finding notes tucked away for me in various nooks and crannies of the home we shared, each one expressing sweet things that Christophe could never bring himself to say out loud. It sufficed.


End file.
